TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1940
“I’m sorry,” the secretary said in French. “We have not seen Monsieur Jouveau for a fortnight.”
Hugh tapped his foot on the tiled floor of the office in Broadcasting House, and he gritted his teeth. “He isn’t at his flat, and none of his neighbors or friends have seen him.”
“Jouveau?” A thin-faced man stormed out of the office behind the secretary. “Have you seen him?”
He had to be Jouveau’s editor, Pierre Chastain. Hugh extended his hand. “I’m Hugh Collingwood. I haven’t seen Jouveau since the third of November, and I’m worried. No one—”
“Worried?” Color mottled Chastain’s hollow cheeks. “I’m enraged. A fortnight! He didn’t ring. He didn’t send a message. Do you know how I’ve scrambled to fill his broadcast times?”
Hugh lowered his arm, his handshake ignored. “That must be a dreadful bother.”
“Reporters! Irresponsible lot. When he returns, I might just murder him.”
Sourness swelled and filled Hugh’s mouth. Without replying, he left the office.
If Uncle Elliott hadn’t been murdered two months earlier with Jouveau involved in the intrigue, and if German bombers didn’t continue to leave hundreds of victims in their wake, Hugh might have humored Chastain’s remark.
Not when his friend had been missing a fortnight and no one seemed to notice or care. Had anyone filed a report with the police?
He strode down the curving hallway, past offices filled with a symphony of languages. The European Services’ shortwave broadcasts beamed to every occupied nation on the continent, providing unbiased news to ears hungry for truth.
A woman laughed, then spoke in Dutch.
Since the night Aleida had followed him home, their friendship had grown closer than ever. Their day at the Savoy and the zoo had been jolly good fun.
But she’d ducked her chin that rainy evening when he’d leaned in to kiss her.
Hugh trotted down the stairs to the lobby. Was it too soon? Or would she ever be ready after what Sebastiaan had done to her?
He passed the guard at the door, put on his hat, and shivered in the cool mist. Might it have nothing to do with trust at all? She’d seen Hugh gasping for breath, tethered to his Pneumostat, tended like an invalid.
What a fine romantic hero he made.
Hugh marched south. He refused to feel sorry for himself. He had far more pressing matters, like finding Jouveau.
His new notebook poked in stiff corners inside his coat pocket, not supple like the notebook he’d left with Jouveau by mistake.
A notebook filled with information for the story he was scheduled to broadcast tomorrow. He’d delayed as long as possible, determined to check his quotes. He should have rung the ministers to check, but he hadn’t. He was too distractible. Too foolhardy. Too hopeful in his conviction that Jouveau would breeze into the pub one evening.
Hugh could no longer delay his broadcast. The story was too important.
He passed the Hart and Swan. If only he’d been more careful when he’d left that evening. Now he’d have to trust his memory.
That was the last time he’d seen Jouveau. His friend had been so smug about his lead on Uncle Elliott’s murder, and he’d promised to tell Hugh what had transpired.
It wasn’t like Jouveau to break a promise.
Hugh walked faster, swinging his arms hard. Was Jouveau’s disappearance connected to the murder? To that appointment with the odd initials?
JI-GB.
If only he could find Jouveau’s notebook. It might contain clues to his whereabouts—appointments or excursions or names. Hugh had tossed Jouveau’s notebook onto his desk whilst Aleida sat in his favorite armchair with Lennox in her lap.
Now he couldn’t find it, despite diligent searching.
Hugh released a grunt into the chilly air. An irresponsible lot indeed.
In ten minutes, he entered the West End Central Police Station on Savile Row.
A constable in a blue uniform greeted him at the front desk.
Hugh introduced himself and showed his BBC identification card, which always opened doors. “A friend of mine has been missing a fortnight. I’m inquiring whether a report has been filed.”
After the constable checked and found nothing about Jouveau, Hugh filed a report.
“I’m afraid it’ll be some time until we can investigate,” the constable said. “You can imagine how many people are missing.”
“It must be quite a burden.” What if Jouveau had been injured or killed during an air raid? A far likelier scenario than the one blackening Hugh’s thoughts. And yet . . . “Might I speak to your detective inspector?”
Annoyance sparked in the man’s broad face.
Hugh made a show of tucking his BBC card back into his breast pocket. “For a story?”
The spark transformed to a sparkle. “Of course. Right this way.”
He led Hugh down a bustling hallway into an office. A middle-aged man in a brown suit sat behind a desk teeming with paperwork.
“DI Clyde?” the constable said. “This is Hugh Collingwood with the BBC. He’d like—”
“I don’t have time for the press.” DI Clyde flopped back in his chair and ran his hand into fair hair in need of a trim. “Make an appointment.”
“I won’t take but a moment.” Hugh held his hat before his stomach in a penitent pose. “A friend of mine is missing, and it might be connected to the murder of Elliott Hastings.”
“The MP?” The detective inspector sat forward.
“Mr. Collingwood filed a missing person’s report.” The constable presented it to the DI.
Clyde read it, then sighed. “François Jouveau. A Soho address.”
“Yes, sir,” Hugh said even as he tensed at the loss of interest. “He’s a reporter for the BBC European Services. A few months ago, he broadcast an interview with Mr. Hastings, in which the MP inadvertently mentioned the departure date of a ship repatriating French troops. The ship was sunk. The police are convinced the murderer is French, but Jouveau disagreed. The last time I saw Jouveau, he had an appointment that evening, in which he expected to solve the murder.”
The detective inspector rolled a pencil on the desk. “Who was he meeting?”
“I don’t know. It was a scoop. We reporters can be rather secretive about such matters.”
Hugh measured his next words. “I believe the case has to do with censorship.”
“Censorship?” DI Clyde drew back his square chin.
“Both Mr. Hastings and Mr. Jouveau were known for speaking somewhat brashly and critically. They each had enemies in the Ministry of Information and the BBC.”
“Censorship isn’t much of a motive for murder.” He slid the report aside on his desk. “The Hastings case is outside my constabulary, but I’ll look into Jouveau’s case. Good day, Mr. Collingwood.”
Hugh swallowed his disappointment. “Thank you for your time, Inspector.”
He followed the constable back to the front desk. Hugh had failed to convince the man, and the case of one missing refugee would be of little importance in a city reeling from air raids.
Outside, the haze had thickened into fog, blurring the damaged buildings into gray.
Perhaps he should have mentioned his suspicions, but they seemed circumstantial.
Albert Ridley had almost come to blows with Uncle Elliott and had been furious with Jouveau for professional indiscretion and for allegedly flirting with his wife. Except Ridley was in London the day of Uncle Elliott’s murder.
Gil had been in the country that day, and he’d argued with Jouveau the night before the Frenchman disappeared.
What about Fletcher? Perhaps Hugh shouldn’t have dismissed him as a suspect. The police had cause to question him, Uncle Elliott had pressed the BBC to fire him, and Ridley had unfairly criticized him for Jouveau’s reporting. And hadn’t Fletcher ordered Jouveau to drop the story?
Why would he do so?
Fog pressed around Hugh, cold and clammy.
Censorship was indeed motive for murder.